by One might think that my return to Hawaii, after weeks in the South Pacific, would have felt like a grand finale. A beautiful last chapter. A soft landing back into the world of leis, aloha, palm trees, and Tom Selleck-style shirts.
Well… not exactly.
My return to Hawaii began with an immigration officer.
Not a lei.
Not a smile.
Not a ukulele gently playing in the background.
When he asked me if I had been to the United States before, I answered, quite honestly:
“I have only been to Hawaii.”
What I meant was that I had never been to the US mainland. In my tired mind, that distinction seemed obvious.
But the immigration officer did not seem to be in the mood for subtle geographical distinctions made by a tired German traveller with limited English and too many islands in his head.
His answer came loudly and firmly:
“Hawaii is the United States.”
Thank you very much, sir. Lesson learned.
I probably looked a bit silly. But honestly, I was not trying to start an independence movement at the immigration counter.
Also, my English at that time was not exactly Shakespeare. More like: “I speak English, but please do not attack me with complicated official questions after a long flight.”
So yes, officially he was right. Hawaii is part of the United States.
Hawaii is also part of Polynesia, within the triangle linking Hawaii, New Zealand, and Easter Island. After French Polynesia and the Cook Islands, that connection mattered much more to me.
At passport control, however, this was probably not the best moment to explain the Polynesian Triangle.
So I kept quiet.
A wise decision.
No Lei, No Aloha, Just a Loud Reminder
That harsh welcome put a shadow over my return to Hawaii.
During my first trip to Hawaii in 1993, I had been full of excitement. It was my first time in the United States, inspired by Magnum P.I., palm trees, beaches, Hawaiian shirts, and all the romantic television images I had carried with me from Germany.
Back then, Hawaii felt exotic. It felt far away. It felt like a dream.
But in 1995, I arrived there after Tahiti, Moorea, the Cook Islands, and Fiji. And that changed everything.
I had seen lagoons that looked almost unreal. I had seen Moorea with its magical mountains, Tahiti with its French-Polynesian rhythm, Rarotonga with its island charm, and Fiji with its warmth, rugby, villages, and kava ceremony. I had met people whose everyday lives had given me a different experience of the Pacific.
And then I returned to Honolulu and Waikiki.
Suddenly, Hawaii did not feel like the South Seas dream anymore.
It felt loud.
It felt commercial.
It felt American.
When the South Seas Dream Meets Shopping Malls
Honolulu and Waikiki became, for me, a final shopping stop.
New jeans.
Some Hawaii shirts.
Of course, shirts from the Tom Selleck Collection.
Because even when the dream is slightly damaged, a good Hawaiian shirt can still rescue the day.
But my heart was no longer really there.
After weeks of smaller islands, slower rhythms, and local encounters, Waikiki felt like a tropical version of a shopping mall with waves.
That may sound unfair, because Hawaii is still beautiful. Of course it is. Outside Honolulu and Waikiki, the islands have incredible landscapes, mountains, beaches, volcanoes, and deep cultural roots. I am sure that Maui, Kauai, or the Big Island could have shown me a different Hawaii again.
But I had no time.
Poor Hawaii. It had to compete with my fresh memories of the South Pacific.
Hawaii: United States by Passport, Polynesia by Soul
The more I thought about it, the more I felt connected not to the American version of Hawaii, but to the Hawaiian people themselves.
In Tahiti and the Cook Islands, I had encountered other Polynesian cultures connected to Hawaii through histories of voyaging and settlement. Fiji, usually grouped with Melanesia, had shown me another part of Pacific island life, with its own traditions and longstanding ties to Polynesian neighbours. These were connections, not one interchangeable island culture.
The Polynesian world was not just a group of dots on the map. It was a vast cultural universe.
And Hawaii belongs to that universe.
Long before American flags, military bases, hotels, and shopping centres, Hawaii was an independent Polynesian kingdom. The Hawaiian Islands were settled by Polynesian voyagers who crossed enormous distances in the Pacific using stars, winds, currents, and knowledge passed down through generations. That alone is already more impressive than anything I managed with a plane ticket and a travel agency brochure.
In 1810, King Kamehameha I unified the Hawaiian Islands into one kingdom. Hawaii had its own monarchy, its own rulers, its own language, culture, traditions, and political identity. It was not some empty paradise waiting to be discovered by tourists in floral shirts.
It was a nation.
Later, Western influence grew stronger. Missionaries arrived. Business interests expanded, especially around sugar plantations. Foreign landowners and businessmen gained more and more power. In 1893, Queen Liliʻuokalani, the last reigning monarch of Hawaii, was overthrown by a group of American and European businessmen, with support from representatives of the United States and the presence of US Marines.
That was not exactly a friendly cultural exchange with snacks and ukulele music.
In 1898, Hawaii was annexed by the United States. In 1959, it became the 50th state.
Officially, that is the history written into political reality.
But beneath that reality is another story: the story of Native Hawaiians who lost land, political power, language, and much of their traditional way of life. The Hawaiian language was pushed aside for generations. Ancient practices were discouraged or controlled. The identity of the islands was increasingly packaged for tourism.
Aloha became a greeting card.
Hula became entertainment.
Paradise became a product.
Of course, Hawaiian culture did not disappear. It survived. It resisted. It came back in many ways through language revival, music, hula, cultural education, and the pride of Native Hawaiian communities. But the loss was real.
And after travelling through other parts of Polynesia, I could feel that loss more clearly.
Three Days and Mixed Emotions
I stayed three days in Hawaii before flying back to Frankfurt via Los Angeles.
Those three days passed with shopping and walking around Waikiki. I left with a much narrower view of Hawaii than the islands deserved.
I had started this trip with dreams of paradise. I ended it with something more complicated: admiration, confusion, beauty, sadness, and a stronger awareness that islands are not just postcards. They have history. They have wounds. They have people whose identity can be covered by tourism, but not erased.
I flew home with wonderful memories of Tahiti, Moorea, the Cook Islands, and Fiji. Those places stayed warm in my heart. Hawaii stayed there too, but differently. Not as the easy paradise of my first visit, but as a place that made me think.
And maybe that is not a bad ending for a journey.
Not every island gives you only sunshine.
Some also give you a lesson at immigration.
Ten years later, Fiji would draw me back—and quietly change the direction of my life.
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